


(The Way It Feels To Be) Completely Intertwined

by kissesfromkrug



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Light Angst, M/M, Magical Elements, Slow Build, Softness, Unnecessary Amount of Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-02
Updated: 2018-01-02
Packaged: 2019-02-12 17:42:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12964881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kissesfromkrug/pseuds/kissesfromkrug
Summary: Dylan’s new journal talks back.* * *In other words, Dylan has the most ridiculous life.





	(The Way It Feels To Be) Completely Intertwined

**Author's Note:**

> Not for profit, fictional; feel free to point out any typos. :)
> 
> Title from Maroon 5’s “Misery”.
> 
> Featuring Dylan the aspiring poet, Mitch the party animal, and Connor that awkward quiet guy.
> 
> Why is there so much swearing?? \\_•-•_/ Why do I write thousands more words than I intend? Also: \\_•-•_/
> 
> 10k words of general confusion all around.

From the moment he’d gotten it in the package from Mitch’s mother Saturday morning, Dylan didn't stop clutching the beautifully designed notebook to his chest with at least one hand.

Mitch tried to hand Dylan things during the party Dylan had been dragged to in order to try to get him to put down the journal for _five fucking seconds_ , but despite his tipsy haze, Dylan didn't fall for it. Not like he was there to socialize with anyone, anyway.

Dylan _loves_  his present. And Mitch’s mom. Large improvement from son to mother.

“That stupid notebook again?” Mitch asks close to midnight after another thump from across the room the following night.

“Your face is stupid,” Dylan shoots back lamely, leaning off the bed to pick the journal back up.

“You haven’t even written in it yet,” Mitch reminds him, making some loud rustling noises as he rolls over to face Dylan. “Have you?”

“That doesn’t matter.”

“Why haven’t you?”

“Because!” Dylan says shortly, and Mitch shushes him obnoxiously. “Oh fuck you, like you’re ever quiet.”

“Now I am,” Mitch whispers, and Dylan can hear the smugness in his voice. “When are you gonna write in it though?”

“When I feel like it.”

“Which is when?” Mitch prompts, and Dylan rolls his eyes as he looks over at Mitch.

“Whenever the _fuck_ I feel like it,” he says sharply, over-enunciating each syllable. “None of your business.”

“But it’s from my  _mom_ , I _gotta_ tell her if you like it!” Mitch insists, and Dylan really just wants them both to go the fuck to sleep.

“I’ve been carrying it around for the whole fucking day, Marns - _yes_ , I like it!” Dylan says, and Mitch hisses “shut up” like they’re in the middle of some covert secret mission. “Fuck you.”

Dylan rolls over, still holding onto the journal. He falls asleep rubbing his thumb over the top of it absentmindedly. If Mitch saw, he’d chirp the fuck out of Dylan for the rest of his life for it.

* * *

Dylan finally has a moment between classes, running around campus, studying, and Mitch and his friends to sit with his journal and write. He’s in the library at his favorite table, headphones in the second he sits down.

Current topic: the blizzard outside that’s been raging since 6 am.

_Dreams in winter are naught but dreams,_

_Meaningless thoughts of which wishes are formed._

_Water cannot flow through nature’s frozen streams,_

_Like the Mother’s deadly ice, you helpless fight the storm._

_And if you dare to dream a dream,_

_Of highest glory and greatest gleam,_

_This one thing I say to you:_

_Dreams in winter will never be true._

Dylan sits back after his dashed out poem beginning on the second line of the first page. It’ll need some editing and looking over, sure, but at least the idea’s on paper.

“‘Dreams in Winter’,” he murmurs to himself, glancing out the window to see the swirling snow carried along invisible paths by the gusting wind. “Appropriate for the season.”

He changes the song on his phone when it repeats, settling into the comfy chair and searching for an internet photo that would accurately describe his poem.

Dylan finds one of a gentle snowstorm in the forest, snow falling over a slowly freezing river. He looks back to the paper, blinking at the tiny snowflake drawn in the top right corner of the page. It’s really cute, but really undignified.

Dylan squints at it, quickly scribbling it out before anyone catches it. He probably did it absentmindedly. He’s been known to sleepwalk, so it’s not unreasonable.

_Marns: WHERE TF R U_

_Dylan: library_

_M: YYYYYYY_

_D: wtf stop yelling_

_M: Y THOOOO_

_M: FOOOOOD_

_M: I WANT FOOD !!!!!_

_D: OMFG I am not buying u food again :/_

_M: u said that last week XD_

_M: whats 4 snack??_

_D: idk use ur own dough n get it urself_

_M: NOOOOOOOOOOO_

_M: TRAPPED_

_D: no ur not suck it up n go_

_M: CANNOT ESCAPE. WANT CHIPS. :((((_

_M: PLLLLLLLLS_

_D: NO._

_M: I WILL LOVE U 4EVA <3<3<3_

_D: oh what a trade off!!!!if id only known ur unconditional love was my reward!!!!bc it’s so hard 2 get!!_

_M: <3 ikr?? thnx budddddd <3_

_D: u supposed 2 call ur unconditional lover bud??_

_M: <33333_

Dylan shakes his head in disbelief as Mitch completely disregards the sarcasm, per usual. He sticks his phone back in his pocket, muttering nonsense about how he’d rather kill something than go out into the storm. He’s mostly joking.

* * *

Instead of murder, Dylan turns to poetry once he’s braved the storm and gotten Mitch his fucking sour cream and onion chips. Goddamit, Marns.

_The winds of change are fast at hand._

_In the glass of hours, the sand_

_Drips down like syrup from the most elderly tree._

_The desert winds blow the land_

_Across itself like braids tied with bands._

_The last grain to fall has lost adventure so free._

Dylan folds his legs tighter into the criss-cross applesauce he’s trying on his bed, tapping his pencil against his lower lip. There’s something that just isn’t right. Rhyme scheme is AAB AAB...which. Now that he thinks of it - might not be the best. Fuck.

Mitch comes barging in the room with three bags of snacks, talking animatedly on the phone with someone _fascinating_. Dylan rolls his eyes as Mitch giggles and flicks his eyes over to him.

“Would you shut the fuck up?” Dylan interrupts, when it’s clear Mitch isn’t speaking to anyone of real importance.

“I’m talking to Davo, fuck off,” Mitch chirps back, not missing a beat as he continues to recount the story of the time he crashed into a mailbox his second time behind the wheel.

“Marns, no one gives a shit,” Dylan says louder as Mitch plops down on their obnoxiously fluffy rug in the center of the room. “Not even Davo.”

“Davo definitely cares, he must be a better friend than you.”

“He’s evidently more stupid, too,” Dylan shoots back, throwing one of his sneakers at Mitch. Mitch dodges it and whispers something into the phone, beaming when Davo apparently laughs. “Who even _is_ he?” Mitch has a tendency to mention people in conversations, yet hardly ever explain who they are, and even more rarely introduce Dylan to them. It’s on Dylan’s top five in his list of pet peeves.

“My best friend,” Mitch coos in a baby voice. “My bestest bestest friend in the whole entire world from media psychology.”

Dylan clutches his chest and puts on his best fake-horrified look. “But - what about me?” He asks in shock.

“You’re my unconditional love, Dyls, what more could you want?” Mitch says, somehow managing to sound somewhat genuine. At Dylan’s rumpled expression, he adds, “My one true bud.”

“Absolutely not,” Dylan says sharply, accidentally dropping the notebook as Mitch giggles and says something else into the phone that Dylan doesn’t quite catch. “Fuck you too.”

"Don’t say that to the bestest bestest friend!” Mitch gasps, covering the phone with his hand. “How dare!” He holds the position for ten whole seconds before Dylan groans and flops face first onto his pillow. “You haven’t even met him yet!”

“I can-”

“Didn’t know you put out before the first date, Stromer,” Mitch finishes, and Dylan chokes on his next words. “I mean, with Davo, I wouldn’t blame you, eh, bud?” The last words he says into his phone, and in the silence Dylan hears a honking laugh on the other end of the line. “Davo agrees,” Mitch whispers loudly, leaning towards Dylan a little as Dylan peeks out from under his arm.

“Jesus fuck, what is _wrong_ with you?” He mutters, but Mitch is no longer paying attention.

Dylan fucks around on his phone, headphones in while Mitch blabbers away. In the break between songs, Mitch says something that piques his interest.

“Almost here? Great!” He chirps happily, and Dylan immediately shuts off his music. Mitch pushes the red button on his phone after he says goodbye. “Davo said he’d come over to work on our project today, so-”

“If you two wanna bang that bad, I can just go,” Dylan interrupts, already on his feet and hunting for his shoes.

“What?”

“I’m not stupid, Marns,” Dylan answers, and just as he sets his hand on the doorknob there’s a soft knock.

“Neither am I,” Mitch replies nonsensically as Dylan opens the door to see a wide-eyed dirty blond standing with his arms full of folders. He stares at Dylan with lips slightly parted, eyes raking down his body as he awkwardly waits for the guy to move. “Uh-”

“Davo? Ya comin’ in?” Mitch calls from behind Dylan, who exhales in relief. He’s not in the mood for a staring contest with a stranger. The guy’s - Davo’s, apparently - eyes widen even more, almost comically so, as he sees Dylan’s notebook. Dylan clutches it tighter and purses his lips.

“I’m, um, so sorry-” Davo says quickly, once he’s done - well, undressing Dylan with his eyes. He steps back and lets Dylan pass, watching his every move. Dylan raises his eyebrow the tiniest fraction as he walks by, and he can see Davo's cheeks flush pink in the bright hall lights.

Interesting.

It’s only until Dylan’s standing outside the dorm in the bitter cold, notebook in hand, that he realizes he has no idea where he’s going.

* * *

“‘Sup, bitch?” Mitch asks as he slides into the chair next to Dylan, tilting his head to watch Dylan write. “So-”

“I’m busy,” Dylan answers. He circles an adverb that he doesn’t like in his most recent, half-finished poem, and he can’t quite find an adequate replacement for it.

“So,” Mitch repeats, “Davo says hi.” Dylan shrugs noncommittally.

“That’s nice.”

Mitch leans closer to Dylan and looks over his poem criticizing the supposed beauty of young love. “Sappy,” he observes, and Dylan elbows him away.

“Shut up,” he mutters, crossing out an entire line, rewriting it, and crossing it out again. Mitch really isn’t helping him focus.

“Nah, it’s good, bro, just - sappy. Like, the sad version of sappy.” Dylan side-eyes him suspiciously, and Mitch, sure enough, is wearing a smug smile totally belaying his compliment.

“Fuck you too,” Dylan says easily. Mitch snorts as his eyes are drawn to the corner of Dylan’s paper, and Dylan follows his gaze to the shittily drawn flower he’d done at 1 am last night while trying to finish the second stanza of his poem.

It wouldn’t be ridiculously embarrassing, though embarrassing enough, if it weren’t for the equally bad hearts drawn around it with a tiny smiley face by the base of the flower. “Don’t even-”

“How _adorable_ ,” Mitch interrupts loudly, smirking even wider as Dylan flushes and quickly closes the notebook. “Even sappier than I thought you were.”

“Oh, fuck off, I was tired,” Dylan defends.

“You would’ve _thought_ that a world-class author like you would’ve been able to find some better insults,” Mitch muses, stroking his chin thoughtfully. “Yours are _so_ overused.”

“You’re so full of shit, you hypocrite,” Dylan retorts, face still an angry red.

Mitch beams proudly at him before returning to his original topic. “Davo says hi.”

“Fantastic.”

“You’re such a douche,” Mitch says, and Dylan shrugs.

“Got it from you,” he says easily, slowly writing out the beginning of the next stanza.

“Davo says _hi_ ," Mitch says again, and Dylan really doesn’t understand why he’s supposed to care. Mitch huffs and pulls out his phone to show Dylan the screen.

_Davoooo 8): nooo where r u?? :(_

_Mitch: seeing if Stromer is @ the lib rn_

_D: tell him I said hi c:_

_M: sure thing ;)_

_D: :,)_

Dylan raises an eyebrow at Mitch, who’s watching his face expectantly. “So?” Dylan asks, pushing the phone away from his face. “Tell him I say hi, I guess. I’ve only seen him like, once.” Mitch shrugs, an interesting expression on his face curling one end of his mouth up. “What?”

“Nothing,” Mitch says innocently, getting up and fishing a bag of Skittles out of his coat pocket. “Gotta go give the red ones to Davo, they’re his favorite.”

* * *

Dylan is up late again in his precious notebook studying another mini sketch he must’ve done while half-conscious. Mitch is at another party with some American named Auston, which - it’s totally a bad idea, even at first glance. Dylan can tell it’s a downright _horrible_ choice already, hashtag hangover.

The little drawing is of two crossing hockey sticks and a puck above his first winter poem. He’d found it by accident, really, flipping through the pages of the notebook to find a better word he should use than “whispered”.

He frowns, traces the sticks with a fingertip, then flips back to the page he’s working on. He blinks once, then scrunches up his eyes and opens them as much as he can when he see what’s next to his short story.

It’s a heart with a microphone next to it - a physical, anatomically disproportional human heart drawn next to a cartoon mic with a cord that leads nowhere. Dylan is _positive_ he didn’t do that.

He doodles some tiny music notes around the heart, and within seconds, the heart gains a smile. “What the fuck,” he says aloud, staring in utter shock at the paper. “What the fuck is this?”

He stares at the page as music notes begin to fill the margins, and he’s not entirely sure he’s not hallucinating.

_Dylan: wtf_

_D: am I dreaming_

For being at a party, Mitch texts back surprisingly fast.

_Marns: ??????_

_M: idk what r u doing?_

_D: watching my notebook draw in itself_

_M: the fuck_

_D: dead srs rn_

_D: am I going insane?_

_M: must b so sick of ur stuff its making its own shit lol_

_M: and yea_

_M: def hallucinating_

_M: gtg, feel better_

_D: im not sick???_

_M: feel better, bitch_

_D: wtf¿?_

Mitch doesn’t reply, so Dylan can assume he’s gone back to doing whatever he was before Dylan interrupted. Whatever. He wasn’t being helpful anyway.

He still doesn’t know how to handle the music notes.

* * *

The drawings keep happening. It’s every day, no matter if Dylan writes in his journal or not. He’ll check just in case, right before he goes to bed, and there’s always a new flower, maple leaf, heart - always something new for him to look at. He’s enjoying the art, despite the fact that it’s literally _drawing itself_. Other than that? Fantastic. Nice. Cool. Totally normal.

Dylan’s working on an old short story one day when, for the first time, the journal writes words of its own. 

**Isn’t it gorgeous?**

Dylan blinks in surprise, and after a few seconds of hesitation chucks it across the room. It makes a thump against the wall, barely missing Mitch’s desk, folding just like it’s supposed to. He waits anxiously for the journal to do something else, maybe get up and dance, since that’s how Dylan’s life is now. It doesn’t move.

He slowly moves across the room, plucking the journal up and jumping back on his bed. Instead of throwing it out the window and looking for something to burn it, he merely sits back on his bed with it and stares at the new words for several long minutes. He looks around the room, seeing nothing really extraordinary besides the massive Maple Leafs flag Mitch has draped over the end of his bed.

The words look rushed and are slanted slightly to the right, letters pressed close together to conserve space. Dylan hesitates a moment, then replies with a lot more calmness than he should feel.

**What is? This journal?**

Oh, god. He’s talking to an inanimate object. Might be time to talk to a therapist sooner than later.

**Yeah I think it’s amazing :)**

**What are you?**

Sticking to the basics, Dylan is. What the actual  _fuck_ is going on?

**Rude lol. I’m not actually a journal.**

The fuck.

**But you’re talking to me in one??**

***thru one. I’m not in it. That’d be _really_ weird.**

Like this isn’t weird already.

**Too late bud.**

**Haha sorry. Hope I’m not keeping you up - Marns said you usually nap around now but you have a big paper due soon?**

If Dylan wasn’t nervous before, he definitely is now.

**Do I know you?**

**Kinda, yeah**

**Are you like. Here?**

Dylan’s being purposefully vague just in case it’s a bluff, but no. True so far.

**Yeah, I have some classes w your roomie. Marns is a good guy. :)**

**Have I met you before?????**

**Technically speaking...yes.**

How helpful.

**When?**

**Recently**

**C’mon, gimme the deets, I need to know who tf you are :/**

**You saw me for 2 seconds once?**

So no. They haven’t met, if this really is a person.

**Doesn’t count, dude. Gal. Whatever.**

**Bud is fine. “Gal” haha**

**Shhhhhh**

They’ve sufficiently filled up the margins of that page, thanks to Dylan’s tiny print in the lines, but he moves to the actual lines of the next one to formulate his next reply.

**Who are you tho?**

**Someone you know of**

Dylan is not in the mood for vague answers.

 **Well....I know of Rihanna, bud.** **And you’re def not her, so you gotta be more specific than that.**

**Haha true..**

So?

**Cmon, bud, what’s your name?**

**I’d rather not say yet**

**Why not????????? :(**

Dylan makes sure that his question marks are big, messy, and obnoxious, just to fuck with Bud’s head. Yes, he gave it a name. He can’t keep thinking “my journal is talking to me” or else he’ll really believe he’s gone insane.

**Not yet.**

**Dude you gotta tell me! Bud!**

Bud doesn’t answer after several minutes of waiting, and Dylan huffs in frustration and disappointment. It’s close to midnight, he reasons with his addled mind. Mysterious Bud will be back later.

Mitch is gonna send him straight to the asylum once he hears about this.

* * *

“Dude, it’s - it fuckin’ _talks_ to me,” Dylan says, near-empty beer bottle hanging loosely from his fingers as he leans back against his bedpost. His legs are splayed wide across the floor, one knee bent to rest his drink-holding wrist on.

“You’re so fucking wasted,” Mitch says affectionately from his spot on his bed.

“It _talks_ , dude, no joke,” Dylan insists, taking another swig of his drink. “Like, not _words_ words, but like - words, it writes words to me and I can talk to it through writing words to it and-”

“I think you’re done with that,” Mitch interrupts, already sliding off the bed while Dylan protests earnestly against him. “Lightweight.”

“It _talks_ to me,” Dylan says excitedly after Mitch has successfully removed the bottle from Dylan’s view. “It really really  _does_. The words are like-”

“Okay, buddy.”

* * *

It’s the first week of February when Mitch finally comes through.

“Lunch with Davo, wanna come?” He offers the second Dylan first opens his eyes. Dylan squints over at him, looking like a pissed off owl as he blinks slowly.

“Where?” Is the first word out of his mouth, and he mentally scolds himself for agreeing just like that. He doesn’t even _know_ the guy.

“I think it’s some new Hibachi place, but I dunno,” Mitch shrugs, a smile already stretching his cheeks wide. “You’re branching out, making friends, meeting people.” He winks at Dylan, who rolls his eyes, then rolls out of bed onto the floor.

“I’m doing it for you,” he mumbles into the rug. “I don’t need any more friends.”

“You don’t _have_ any friends.” Dylan opens his mouth to protest, but Mitch adds gleefully, “My one true bud really _does_ love me.” Dylan raises his head to look at Mitch, who’s got his phone up and recording.

“Fuck you,” Dylan sighs, throwing the nearest shoe at his face. Mitch giggles and ducks, typing something out and sending it to whomever. “I hate you.”

“My one true bud, you could never hate me,” Mitch says in a horrible accent, reaching one hand up to the ceiling as if giving a powerful soliloquy. “We are truly love buds forever.”

“Not if you keep calling me that.”

* * *

It’s - awkward, to say the least. It could be worse, with Dylan being forced to sit on Davo’s side while Mitch rants to the both of them about anything and everything he can think of. About halfway through the meal, Dylan realizes it’s a defense mechanism - or at least something to help Dylan and Davo get more comfortable with each other. Bless Mitch’s huge heart.

Dylan isn’t oblivious to Davo’s eyes, either. Just like the first time they met, he watches Dylan with thinly veiled interest, studying his hands most of all.

When Mitch has a mouthful of food, he’s (normally) rendered speechless, and once he notices Davo’s stare, he makes a complicated eyebrow motion that has Dylan snorting into his water glass. “Told you everyone thinks I’m funny,” Mitch beams at Davo, who shrugs and pokes his sushi roll.

“I believed you the first time,” he says, glancing at Dylan’s hand next to his plate. Dylan clenches it into a fist for a moment, almost on instinct, and Davo quickly turns to face the list of wines with a movement that doesn’t go unnoticed by Mitch.

He winks at Dylan and sticks out his tongue. Dylan just rolls his eyes, subtly mouths, “fuck you”, and chews happily on his meal as Mitch launches into another rant about how he isn’t appreciated enough.

* * *

Bud stays consistent in his replies, commenting or doodling on Dylan’s work when he deems it necessary. Dylan still questions his sanity whenever he writes out notes, but he’s started to accept the fact that his head may not be on entirely straight.

He knows what he’ll get when he finally shows Mitch - that one night he texted Mitch at that party was probably believed to be a fluke. He’ll be laughed at for about 20 minutes before he gets the “you thought you were fucking talking to someone through a notebook but there’s nothing here but your handwriting, what the fuck” talk.

Mitch? Help? Bad combination.

_There’s nothing like you tonight,_

_Not a thing I can artfully compare to your beauty._

_Not even the infinite expanse of the sky_

_Is a more worthy sight to my eyes than you._

_The light of every star dies in the aura of your vibrant spirit;_

_Every living thing will obey you at the slightest flick of your finger._

_Never has a more remarkable specimen of goodness been discovered,_

_Yet even so,_

_You still rest miles from true perfection._

Dylan waits for a good 30 minutes for another idea (or a response through the journal, but Dylan’s trying quite hard not to think about that), puttering around the room and attempting to clean it up to kill time.

**As Marns would say, “sappy as fuuuuck”**

Dylan flops down on his bed with the journal, laying on his stomach as he quickly writes out a reply.

**Hey, fuck you too, it’s called marketable work**

**Never said it wasn’t good! :( I do like it**

**Thanks?**

**Welcome :)**

**So can you tell me who you are now?**

**Why?**

**Mom always told me not to talk to strangers - what do you think?? :|**

**Nah not yet.**

Dylan frowns in disappointment.

**Whyyyyyyyyy : <**

**Maybe later :)**

**Soon, please.**

**I’ll think about it**

**K**

Yeah, Dylan’s giving Bud the “k” treatment. Deal with it.

**I do really like this one, you’re really talented**

**Good thing I chose an English major**

**Good thing!! You don’t look like a poetry person on the outside tbh**

**Poetry people all look a certain way? Stereotype!! :0**

Dylan does not expect the reaction he gets from Bud, even though sarcasm can be hard to detect through writing. _Someone_ wants to stay on Dylan’s good side.

**No no no not like that I’m so sorry it’s not like that it’s like**

**???**

**I just picture poets being old or super sad and secluded and lonely and stuff and you’re not any of those I don’t think. :)**

**I’m sad and lonely though haha**

**:,( D:**

**Heh yeah that**

**I’m lonely too. :) I’m glad I can have you to talk to.**

**Thanks? You’re welcome? XD**

Bud doesn’t reply for a long five minutes, and Dylan almost thinks he’s gone until something else is added on the line below his last reply, in tiny letters, as if Bud wants them to be hidden.

**Listen um..... could I tell you something personal?**

Dylan stares at the page for almost a minute, not replying to Bud save a smiley face, just as he’s been asked to.

**Ok so I’ve only told Marns but like. I need to tell someone else too bc my mom is bugging me about relationships and I’m not in one and I could never be who she wanted.**

This got real deep _real_ fast. Dylan was warned.

 **You’ll always be what she wants** , Dylan writes with an attempt at a sad frown. **You’re her kid.**

**But not the kind of kid she wants. She wants me to marry a nice girl and have kids and stuff but like!!!!! </3**

**...You don’t like girls?** Dylan ventures, unsure if he’s allowed to step into this area of conversation. He doesn’t even know who this guy is.

**No... :(**

**Hey there’s nothing wrong with that! It’s the 21st century, you can be and like whoever you want :) :) :)**

**That’s what Marns said but.......I can’t be.**

**Yes you can. You can be whatever and whoever the fuck you wanna be.**

**But my parents wouldn’t like me for it, they don’t _want_ me to be different, they don’t _want_ a weird child**

**You're** _ **not weird**_ **, bud, you’re really fucking not,** Dylan writes out furiously, before Bud can go on. He knows the feelings Bud’s having from current experience...he _knows._ **There’s lots of people who aren’t straight in this world.**

**I can’t be one of them :(**

**But you CAN**

**My older brother is a priest though!!**

**He’s not you. Be your own person and be proud of it, and your parents will love you anyway.**

**Are you sure?**

God, he’s comforting a voice that lives behind the pages of a journal. What has his life come to?

**If they love you for who you are individually and not how different you are from the supposed normal, then yes, I’m sure, Bud.**

**Is that your name for me? Bud?**

**Yup; you like it?**

**:) yeah**

**It’ll be fine, bud. I promise. You can always use me as a void to scream into XD**

**Lol okay. Thanks for listening, btw**

**No problem. :)**

Bud goes silent after that, and Dylan sighs and gently closes the journal. He should just...minor in psychology too, just in case Bud comes up with something he doesn’t know about. Just because.

* * *

“Are you sure you aren’t dating him?” Dylan blurts aloud as Mitch mentions Davo yet again in conversation at their empty lunch table. Mitch stops talking, raises an eyebrow at Dylan, and grins knowingly over his sandwich. “What? What the fuck is _that_ look for?”

“I‘m damn sure he’s single,” Mitch says, slower than usual, and Dylan snorts.

“Seriously?” He says, incredulous as he shoves a handful of fries in his mouth. “You’re like, legit not dating your quiet smart friend from whatever-the-fuck class?” Now that he says it, it _does_ sound unreasonable. Dylan isn’t exactly the type to think through things too much before he says them, so.

“He’s single,” Mitch singsongs, wiggling his eyebrows. “As a Pringle ready to mingle.”

Dylan cringes. “Then maybe you should date him,” he says in the same cringey voice. “I literally thought you guys were fucking.”

“He doesn’t like me like that, although I can be irresistible,” Mitch coos, leaning across the table. He glances around, leans a bit closer. “But have you seen that ass?”

Dylan jerks back, eyes wide as Mitch laughs and relaxes in his chair. “No, what the-”

“It’s such a fucking gift from the gods, holy shit,” Mitch says eagerly, proudly beaming at Dylan. “If I wasn’t so invested in my own special someone, then, like. _Damn_. I wouldn’t say no.”

“You’re so fucking gross,” Dylan mutters, glaring at his innocent fries. “Wait - special someone? Who?”

“Who what?” Mitch asks quickly, chewing on his lip. Dylan instantly notices his change in demeanor from confident to shy, shy Mitch, which is quite rare these days. Dylan enjoys the uncommon and satisfying moments when he can.

“Who you interested in?” Dylan presses, and Mitch bites down harder. “C’mon, Marns, _real_  love buds don’t keep secrets.”

Mitch exhales loudly and puts down his nearly finished sandwich. He glances around at his surroundings again, leans even farther over the table, and whispers, “It’s a secret.”

“Bullshit, Marns, I tell you everything,” Dylan scoffs, and it brings a smile to Mitch’s face as Dylan continues, “Who am I gonna tell, my journal?”

“Your diary?” Mitch corrects, jumping on a new train of thought. “Do you write all your dreams about _your_ perfect someone in there?”

“It’s a journal from your mom, who I like better than you, by the way,” Dylan says, leaving Mitch sputtering. “And it doesn’t matter what I write in there, anyway.” Mitch just pouts, and Dylan takes the chance once more. “C’mon, Mitch. Who’s your special someone?”

“Yours is Davo,” Mitch says instead, smirking proudly, and Dylan is not in the mood.

“I don’t even fucking know him, Marns, I don’t like him like that.”

“But you like him?” Dylan presses his lips together in a pale, flat line, glaring at Mitch.

“He’s a nice guy,” Dylan says finally, shoving more fries in his mouth to avoid having to answer any more immediate questions.

“But-”

“Who’s your secret lover, bud?” Dylan presses, raising both eyebrows ridiculously high.

Mitch just shrugs, shakes his head, and avoids looking to his right for the rest of the meal. If that isn’t suspicious, Dylan doesn’t know what is.

* * *

Davo is - not that bad. Mitch insists on taking both of them to parties of the same Auston from weeks and weeks ago, which Dylan really should find suspicious. Mitch always fucks off for an hour or two during the middle of the party, popping up at Dylan’s side ridiculously happy and a bit disheveled.

“Again?” Dylan asks, slouching against the wall with Solo cup in hand as Mitch leans on his shoulder with a stupidly happy grin on his face.

“Yeah,” Mitch sighs, almost too quiet to be heard over the music and too far gone to care about how sappy he sounds.

Davo is on Dylan’s other side, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else but the crowded room. Honestly, same.

“You need anything?” Dylan asks Mitch, because although he and Mitch have a teasing friendship, they actually do care about the other’s health once in a while.

“A drink,” Mitch replies, still smiling, which. Not exactly beneficial to health, but it’s not like Dylan’s ever really refused - or would ever refuse - something alcoholic when it’s free.

“I’ll get it,” Davo says suddenly, propelling himself off the wall and towards the kitchen so fast Dylan isn’t quite sure Davo’s human. Mitch blinks up at him, studying him with more thought than his drinks and obvious sex-hair should allow.

“He likes you,” he says as Davo finally makes his way back. Dylan frowns, takes another sip. “He really does. It’s _so_ sappy and gross.” Dylan is about to call Mitch’s _face_ sappy and gross when Mitch adds, much louder, “Can’t believe anyone would go for a nerd like you, eh?”

Dylan would reply with some snarky jab if it wasn’t for Davo’s reappearance with a full cup for Mitch, who smirks at Dylan before giving Davo a huge, genuine smile. “He’s getting to you through me,” he whispers not-so-subtly, and Dylan bites his lip and elbows him in the side. “Hey, rude!”

“Shut the fuck up, Marns,” Dylan mutters, glancing over to see Davo’s watchful stare. He doesn’t break eye contact with Dylan until Dylan runs a hand through his own hair and sighs, and Davo immediately focuses on Dylan’s hands. Mitch has some weird fucking friends.

“I wanna talk to my - my friends again,” Mitch slurs loudly after a while, snapping Dylan out of it. He looks back down at where Mitch is slumped against his side, clearly more buzzed than before.

“We _are_ your friends, Marns, but nice try - and I don’t-” Dylan doesn’t even get the chance to finish before Mitch is stumbling across the room to sit on someone’s lap. Auston, Dylan had figured out earlier that month.

“What can you do?” Davo sighs from next to him, and Dylan jumps.

“With Marns? Not much,” he chuckles awkwardly, biting the rim of his cup in order to avoid saying something else. He’d rather not talk to this guy right now.

Luckily, Davo shuts up and stares blankly across the room for several awkward seconds while Dylan watches him in confusion. He absentmindedly licks his lips, looking down at his hand to lick something off it, too, and Dylan swallows hard. He’s a sucker for the mouthy ones.

He stares and stares at Davo for way longer than he should, longer than mere friends - no, acquaintances - should look at each other. He studies Davo’s insanely big hands, his surprising arms in the plaid button-down he chose to wear, the near-glow of his wet, parted mouth, the smooth length of his legs in his ridiculously tight skinny jeans - lots of things in Dylan’s life seem to be ridiculous-

“Dylan, um,” Davo says, sounding just the slightest bit scandalized, and Dylan immediately turns away. “No, I - just wanted to say something, it’s not-”

“I gotta go,” Dylan mutters, eyeing Mitch before pushing off the wall and searching for the exit. He doesn’t look to see if Davo follows him, and if Davo is anything like Dylan thinks, he won’t.

Dylan stops at the door with his hand on the knob, frozen in indecision. He can just text Mitch to be back around 1-ish, but.

He’s missing something.

He turns around.

“Dylan,” Davo breathes, and Dylan feels trapped as he grabs his left hand in his right and squeezes hard.

“Bye Davo,” Dylan tells him quickly, moving to turn again. Davo steps closer to him, within two feet now, smiling nervously.

“It’s, um. Uh,” he starts, looking at Dylan’s clasped hands as he talks. “My name’s Connor, um, McDavid.” Dylan stops his brain to think about the new fact he’s been provided with, proudly storing it in the newly renamed “Connor” category without even a single chirp. The name suits him, all soft hair and low voice that, if used properly, could easily put Dylan on his knees.

Dylan tries really, really hard not to think about how it would feel to be on his knees for Connor.

“See ya, Connor,” Dylan says slowly, and he thinks Connor might blush as he mumbles something back and jogs away. Fucking _weird_.

* * *

_The softness of edges,_

_The pureness of gaze,_

_You seem to walk in a delirious haze._

_The movements so smooth,_

_The words so round,_

_You make the world glow when you come around._

_There’s something I‘ve learned_

_That I can’t quite explain:_

_I see you as the farthest thing from plain._

_There is nothing special,_

_Not one-of-a-kind,_

_But you’re slowly and gently_

_Losing my mind._

**Is there someone you’re in love with?**

Dylan bites his lip as he thinks of the right reply.

**No, not really**

Not really the right reply, either - or the truthful one - but. There’s only so much he can tell Bud, seeing as he knows who Dylan is.

**:( that’s sad**

**Not really. I don’t have to worry about someone night n day**

**That’s not really what love is...**

**Enlighten me.**

**The forefront of a relationship shouldn’t be worry. It’s about love, care, tenderness, passion - good things.**

Dylan frowns. How would Bud know, anyway?

**Not from what I’ve seen.**

**What, movies tell you that all the heroes get divorced or separated after having their first child? Cause that isn’t how it works. Definitely not all the time.**

**It’s not movies**

**Then what????**

**My family, dumbass. My parents are some of the only ones in it to stay together, and it’s just for me n my bros.**

Bud doesn’t reply for a few minutes. Serves him right.

**I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have assumed.**

**:/**

**Forgive me?? :(**

Here we go again.

**I don’t even know you, Bud. I can’t forgive a faceless writer.**

**I can’t tell you yet.**

**Then I can’t forgive you**

**You gave me advice on relationships yet you can’t say three simple words? :/**

**They’re not simple, actually. You have to really mean it, and I can’t if I can’t see you.**

**Seeing is believing, Polar Express ghost frame of mind, eh?**

**It’s not that simple, but I guess, yea.**

**I don’t want to hurt you, Dylan.**

And there’s the “I know you, you don’t know me” part of it.

**That’s why I want you to forgive me so I know we’re okay. Please.**

_We’ll never be okay,_ Dylan wants to yell into the journal. _We never can, even when I figure out who you are. Why do you even care about me that much, anyway?_

 **Why?** He asks instead. **Why do we have to be ok?**

**I want you to be my friend. I don’t have...any. Except Marns.**

**But I don’t know you, Bud!!!!**

**We can’t be friends if you don’t know my name?**

**I’d prefer talking to someone I knew, thanks very much. This whole journal thing still is fucking weird.**

Ouch. Dylan just - he pretty much told Bud he won’t talk unless he knows the name behind the words.

 **Maybe another time** , Bud says, and refuses to reply to any of Dylan’s sad or confused faces for the rest of the day and night.

* * *

Mitch goes to parties, sometimes with Dylan and sometimes not; Dylan studies and writes his ass off when he’s not busy being with Mitch, and Davo is - no, _Connor_  is. Well _._ Connor floats in the background, seemingly always with Mitch. Dylan finds the soft yet easily distinguishable scent of Connor’s cologne following him everywhere from when they accidentally bumped into each other one night.

He and Bud still write notes to each other, and Dylan has found himself growing closer to Bud despite lack of identity. He knows lots about him - he's got eyes that change color, he hates math, he’s got a crush on one of Mitch’s guy friends (Mitch is friends with half the school, which doesn’t narrow anything down), he’s got a dog back home, his older brother’s involved with the church, his parents live right outside the city - but no name.

There’s nothing that can Dylan can definitively identify with a human he knows, so he’s been left in the dark rather intentionally. He’ll last up to a certain point. One day, Bud will give himself away. One day.

 **What are they like?** Dylan asks one day when they’re talking about Bud’s crush. **Do I know him? You gotta at least tell me that.**

**I think so.**

**What’s he like?**

**Tall. Attractive. Smart. Witty. Sweet.**

**Sounds pretty stereotypical...**

**Hey!! :(**

**No like in the way that that’s what everyone says about who they like. Those are the main things that ppl notice.**

Bud thinks for a minute.

**He’s got the darkest, most gorgeous eyes, hands that could rend diamond from rock, a mind that forms endless possibilities and worlds so different from anything else ever dreamed up, and a tongue that could soothe the harshest wounds, yet sometimes creates them too without even trying.**

Bud went all out.

**Whoa, talk about good poetry !**

**Not really. Just the truth.**

**Deep truth. You seem really into him.**

Dylan takes in a deep breath, starting a few words before scribbling them out again. Finally he adds,

**Thanks for telling me that, I mean......you didn’t really have to, you know**

**I wanted to. For when you finally figure out who I am**

**So you’re not going to tell me?**

**You’re smart enough.**

**Thanks, but...if you’re giving me hints, they’re not good enough.**

***sigh* you’re smart enough you’ll get it eventually.**

**Thanks lol I hope so XP**

**Me too.**

* * *

“So you said you’re good at psychology?” Dylan prompts Connor one time when they’re eating lunch with Mitch and a couple of his friends.

“I mean, it’s my major,” Connor says, considering him from across the table, “So I’d hope so.”

Dylan raises his eyebrows. “Nice. Okay so I have a question.” He makes a hand motion as he thinks. Connor watching intently. “How do you get someone to reveal who they are?” Connor looks confused and tense, and Dylan retracts. “You know, like, I’m. Texting someone I found on...social media, but their bio doesn’t give their name or any stuff that would give me any clue as to who they are.” Dylan tried to be casual, okay? It’s not his forte.

“Well, um,” Connor starts, wringing his hands under the table and staring at the ceiling. “Social media, you said?” Dylan nods, hopefully convincing enough. “What have you asked...them before?”

“Family stuff, interests, and favorite things, which they’ve answered; where they go to school and their name, which they haven’t,” Dylan says, counting the things off on his fingers.

Connor has an unrecognizable look on his face, masking whatever emotions he’s holding captive - perks of taking psychology, Dylan guesses. He takes another bite of his pizza as he watches Connor’s expression.

“Something up with you and Davo, eh?” Mitch asks, nudging Dylan in the side with a dumb smirk.

“Nothing you’d know about,” Dylan answers evenly. “It’s a smart people thing.”

“I got on the honor roll all through high school,” Mitch says loftily. “Watch who you’re talking to.”

“Honor roll is straight B’s, Marns. Oh, and perfect except for that semester you busted that kid for smoking in school and his friend fought you in the middle of the hallway and you both got suspended for a week,” Dylan says, a little louder than before, and suddenly the whole table is curious about Mitch’s high school misfortunes.

“Anyway,” Dylan sighs, looking back to Connor. “Come to any conclusions yet?”

Connor only shrugs when Dylan raises an eyebrow. “Just keep asking, I guess,” he says carefully. “They’ll tell you soon enough if you really want to know.”

Dylan leans back in his chair and watches Mitch recount his senior pranking adventures. “Good to know.” He looks back at Connor thoughtfully, finishing his first slice of pizza. “Thanks, bud.”

Dylan just might imagine it, but he thinks Connor tenses up for a split second as he reaches for his fork.

“Anytime.”

* * *

At the end of Dylan’s most recent poem he’s editing, he writes a note to Bud.

**Friend told me I should keep bugging you about who you are so I’m not gonna stop asking till you give me an answer.**

**Not the best advice, Strome.**

**Oh, he’s pretty smart; I think he’s onto something.**

Whaddaya know? Dylan’s out here complimenting Connor. Connor really isn’t as weird as Dylan once thought he was. Not entirely, at least.

**I’m not telling you yet.**

**But why? What do you have to lose?** Dylan writes with a small frown. **I don’t know who you like, you know me and Marns...**

**I’ve told you too much.**

**What, so now I’m never gonna know? :( :(**

**Not yet. Patience is key.**

**Patience can go fuck itself.**

**Geez you wanna know that bad, eh?**

Uh, _duh._

**Lil bit :/**

**I’ll tell you when I think it’s time.**

**.....Bud. PLEASE. Now.**

**No. Write me another poem about love.**

**Why?**

**You’ve gotta like somebody, no?**

**Don’t change the topic, I see what you’re doing there O.o**

**Answer the question.**

Dylan swallows hard, biting his lip. No, there’s no one, no one outside of his family that he cares about more than Mitch. Although...

**I mean...maybe? Idk.**

**You don’t know?**

**I mean. I like him as a person..but.....idk!**

Dylan immediately scribbles out the “him” and writes “them”, but it’s too late. Bud’s already written his answer. Fuck fuck fuck fuck-

**Him?**

**Fuck, I didn’t mean to say that. No.**

**Dude. You literally gave me advice on how to deal with gay stuff. I’m not weirded out.**

**But you know me and idk you so I hope I’m not actually close w you in real life cause it’s gonna be awkward af.**

**Not if you don’t make it awkward :)**

**I don’t fucking know who you are. I’m not gonna be able 2 do that.**

**Just...be normal around everyone. I don’t care anyway. #gayaf lol**

**Wowwww XD fine**

**Good. :)**

Dylan smiles down at his journal. He wraps his scarf tighter around his neck, glancing around the library as Bud adds something else.

**And yeah, we’re friends irl. Kind of.**

**Good to know, Bud.**

**Glad I have you, Stromer.**

**Ooh I get a nickname too! :P**

**You deserve it 8)**

**Haha thanks.**

Dylan looks up at the sound of a little commotion near the front doors, and it’s Mitch and a few of his friends. Because of course it is.

**See you later??**

**See ya, Stromer :)**

Dylan doesn’t see the heart that Bud adds after he closes the notebook and walks away. Bud quickly scribbles over it and turns it into a hockey puck, and Dylan will never know.

* * *

Dylan is pleasantly drunk in his dorm room, and Mitch has invited four - only four! - of his friends - he knows the entire student body, Dylan swears - in as well to watch a movie, including Connor.

“Our Thanksgiving is _obviously_ superior.”

And Auston.

“Oh shut up, it’s so fake,” Mitch objects over Will Smith’s voice, tilting back the nearly empty bottle of vodka again as he sits in front of Dylan’s bed and watches the computer sitting on his own. “Canadians are so superior in like, everything.”

“How long has it been since Canada won a Stanley Cup, _eh_?” Auston prompts, also from the floor, mocking the classic Canadian word. “Too fuckin’ long to brag.”

“We’re almost there, don’t bash Toronto’s rebuild,” Mitch says, slurring his words together in exaggeration. He hasn’t had _that_ much to drink yet. “They’re a good team this year.”

“Not good enough.”

“You know what’s not good enough?” Dylan interjects, still more than half interested in the movie. “My empty cup.” He shows it to Connor expectantly, who’s sitting next to him on Dylan’s bed (but not too close) and has been in control of the alcohol the whole night. Dylan is still surprised that Mitch didn’t throw a huge party in their room instead of a private movie night - although very grateful.

Connor takes the cup, staring at it - or maybe Dylan's hand - as he pours in some of the vodka he’d taken from Mitch’s bottle so he didn’t accidentally poison himself. “You sure you can handle this?” He asks as Dylan reaches for the cup, and Dylan huffs.

“Says the one who hasn’t had a sip.”

“Someone’s gotta be responsible for you idiots,” he says easily with a shrug. “Better to be sober than hungover.”

“Busta rhymes,” Mitch says, leaning heavily on Auston’s side. “Put on somethin’ good, Aus.” He pokes Auston’s leg from where it’s readily available and looks pointedly at the speaker in the corner. Auston sighs, and Mitch twists his head around to look up at him, fluttering his eyelashes ridiculously.

“Oh my god,” one of Mitch’s friends sighs from the other side of the room - also on the floor. Matt, Dylan thinks his name is. Mitch just flips him off and beams up at Auston, who shakes his head.

“Watch the damn movie, Mitchy,” he says, wrapping an arm around Mitch’s waist nonetheless and tugging him closer. Matt fake gags, and Dylan snorts and looks away. Mitch hasn’t ever hid his emotions very well, but this is a new level. He _sucked_ at hiding his special someone’s identity - even though Auston isn’t much better at subtlety.

“Anyway,” Mitch says, lounging back against Auston’s ridiculous chest with a lazy smile, “I dare you to kiss the hottest person in the room.” He’s twisted around to stare at Dylan as he says it, and Dylan shakes his head before he even speaks.

“No, what the fuck?” He laughs shakily, trying to ignore Connor’s suddenly potent smell beside him. It’s spicy and alcoholic, and Dylan feels even drunker than he thinks he should be. “This isn’t truth or dare anyway, lemme watch the movie.”

“It’s just-” Mitch is cut off by a demolition robot bashing in a house, and Dylan welcomes the interruption. “Dyls, c’mon, you chicken or something?”

“Don’t even try that,” Dylan says over the ooh’s of Mitch’s stupid friends. “I came here to have a good time and honestly I’m feeling so attacked right now.”

“You can’t meme your way out of this,” Auston says, meme master he is. That damn Harambe sweatshirt is so fucking ridiculous - what did Dylan say about everything in his life being ridiculous, again?

“Yes I can,” Dylan says stubbornly, crossing his arms and instinctively glancing over at Connor. Per usual, he’s watching Dylan. “Can I help you?” When Dylan’s tipsy, the words tend to come a lot easier to him, no matter what they are. He only barely restrains himself from making a comment on how nice Connor’s arms look in his short sleeves.

“Nah.” Connor seems more casual and relaxed than normal, which is - good. Dylan’s happy for him and his temporary normalcy. He narrows his eyes, noting Connor’s big hand clenching his knee tightly. Maybe not as relaxed as Dylan thought.

Connor bites his lip and teases it between his teeth, not taking his eyes off Dylan. Even more up to a challenge now that he’s got some alcohol in his system, Dylan stares right back as Connor’s eyes drag down his body, legs dangling off the end of the bed and arms still crossed over his chest. If Dylan was asked, he’d think he looks pretty good like this.

Connor looks good how he’s sitting, too. Leaning back against the wall, wearing those stupidly nice black ripped skinny jeans - again - and positioning himself _just so_ so Dylan gets a perfect eyeful of his broad shoulders and sweet biceps. It’s not helping Dylan, either, that Connor’s shirt has ridden up a bit at the waist, revealing a pale toned stomach that Dylan wouldn’t mind licking or rubbing while he-

“Stromer, I bet you $20 to kiss the hottest person in the room,” Mitch says, breaking into Dylan’s intrusive thoughts about Connor hands on him - and vice versa. “Come _on,_ love bud.”

“ _Love bud_?” Auston questions, unsubtly tightening his hold on Mitch.

“Yup.” Dylan can’t see his expression, but from all his experience, he can picture Mitch’s giant, overly proud smile.

“What about me?”

“You don’t count,” Mitch says reassuringly, patting Auston’s thigh. “You’re better than that.” Auston grins as Mitch turns to kiss him, and Matt makes another obnoxious noise and swats at the middle finger Mitch shows him behind his back. Dylan huffs and shakes his head, and Connor chuckles beside him.

Dylan again turns to look - bad decision - but Mitch isn’t done annoying him. “You know, I could just dare you to kiss Davo, since you can’t stop staring at each other. Put you both out of your misery.” Mitch shouldn’t be sober enough to notice that.

“I’m not,” Dylan lies while literally watching Connor watch him. Connor raises an eyebrow at Dylan as Mitch begins to talk again, as if to silently ask _you wanna?_ Dylan bites the inside of his cheek, the tension buzzing in the air, and as Connor leans an inch closer, Dylan finally looks back at the movie.

“I’ll pay you tomorrow, Marns,” he says, hearing Connor’s exhale before he shifts on the bed. Mitch immediately starts chirping him, and at the end of the night, Dylan wonders if it was worth it to dismiss a clear chance at kissing Connor.

Probably - and for the better, too.

* * *

 **I think I like someone** , Dylan writes in his journal an hour or two later, after he’d herded everyone that didn’t belong out of their room. Mitch crashed minutes later, so Dylan helped him out of his clothes like a true Love Bud and tucked him in. They’ve known each other since middle school. Nothing’s weird with them anymore.  **And I don’t wanna like him.**

**Why not?**

**It would complicate things.**

**Are you guys friends?**

**Yeah**

**Is he straight?**

**Prolly...not?**

**Is it Marns?**

Dylan laughs out loud, and Mitch makes a snuffling noise. Dylan scoots further down the bed with a flashlight and pen in hand.

**Oh my god, no, we’re just bffs. He’s in love with the Meme King, anyway.**

**The Meme King wtf?? XD**

**Auston lol**

**Right right. So.**

**I’m not telling you who it is** , Dylan writes before Bud can ask. **That is off limits info. Like your name.**

**But you really like them?**

Dylan thinks about it. It’s not even an option, really.

**Fraid so. :/**

**You know you could just...tell them how you feel, right?**

**It’s not that simple. Have you done that yet.**

**....no. But I’m going to. This week.**

**Excuses, excuses, Bud, c’mon now. XP**

**I will. I promise. You’ll see.**

**How will I see if idk you?!**

**You’ll know.**

**You’re gonna tell me? Finally?! :0**

Bud doesn’t answer. Dylan sighs and closes his notebook, shutting off the flashlight and sticking the pen on his desk behind him.

So close.

* * *

“Davo wants to take us to lunch again,” Mitch says three days later. “Says it’s important.”

“That same place?” Dylan asks, remembering all their awkward times more than anything. He thinks back to all the times he’s held eye contact with Connor, and all the times they’ve caught each other staring. _Too many_ , Dylan thinks with a wince. _Way too many_.

“Nah, some Italian place near his house. My personal fav, too.”

“Because you have the best taste,” Dylan says sarcastically, but Mitch only beams at him, oblivious or uncaring.

“You got it!”

An hour later and Dylan’s busy staring at Connor’s Instagram page as they wait, which he’d only found the previous morning. His follow request had been accepted almost immediately, and he’s been scrolling through the photos ever since.

Connor has a...body. Nice.

“Sorry I’m late,” Connor says from above him, and Dylan immediately locks his phone and looks up to see Connor standing in front of them, looking flustered in the middle of the common room.

His hair is sticking in every direction, probably from the Leafs beanie in his hand, and his cheeks are a sweet rosy red from the blustery wind. Even in the end of March the temperatures rarely frequent above freezing, but Connor’s blue-green eyes sparkle with life in the light, as if he wouldn’t want it any other way.

He’s got the most pure looking eyes Dylan has ever seen, which doesn’t even make any fucking sense, except that it’s Connor, wearing a green poofy winter coat and big snow boots, looking so - _precious_. Adorable. Gorgeous.

“Are we going, or are you just gonna sit there and stare?” Mitch asks amusedly, and Dylan flushes red and stands up so quickly he goes light-headed.

“Let’s go,” Dylan mutters, heading out the door with hands in his jacket pockets as Connor hums a few perfectly tuned bars of “Stop and Stare”. Dylan loves it. Dylan loves Connor, maybe.

Whoa.

“That’s what _I_ said,” Mitch says as they exit the warmth of the dorms.

No one says anything, but no one has to, either.

* * *

So. The sky is blue, Toronto is cold, and Dylan loves pizza. What’s new?

Mitch just laughs as Dylan scarfs down his third huge slice in under 10 minutes, but Connor just watches - as always - with a small smile. It’s Dylan’s goal today to make him show his toothy smile.

He knows he’s kinda fucked, okay? He knows.

He knows he loves Connor’s huge smile; loves the way he studies things and people so intently; loves how long Connor’s fingers and how big his hands are, yet he touches everything so very carefully; loves how Connor will openly look back at him despite the cute blush he gets high on his pretty cheekbones; loves the little marks on Connor’s face and the scars that show that beauty isn’t perfection; Dylan loves-

Connor.

Dylan swallows the last of the slice and stares at Connor’s plate, incredibly overwhelmed by his thoughts. He was never supposed to feel this way about Connor, and it frankly scares the shit out of him. He doesn’t - he hardly even _knows_ Connor.

“You okay?” Connor asks, and Dylan glances up to see a concerned expression on Connor’s still-red face.

“Why?”

“You look...weird.” Dylan laughs shortly, and Connor adds, “No, like, the sad kind of weird.”

 _You take psych, you’re supposed to know what’s wrong_ , Dylan wants to say. _What’s my diagnosis, doc? What’s the matter with me?_ He doesn’t. _You don’t know what’s up?_ He wants to ask, _Thought you were supposed to be a genius at feelings and stuff, eh?_ He doesn’t say that, either.

“I am,” he blurts out, just as Mitch is about to chirp them. “Sad, I mean. Kind of.” Mitch stops chewing immediately, looking like he stepped on a baby bird, and Connor looks hurt like he could _be_ the baby bird. Dylan really needs to think first, talk second, act third. “I mean, it’s fine. We’re all kinda sad sometimes, eh?”

Connor just stares at him with a mournful look of his own, then says suddenly, “Mitch, pay. I’ll get the bill next time.” Mitch barely has time to sputter out what probably will be an objection before Connor’s grabbing his coat and heading outside.

Dylan raises his eyebrows at Mitch, who shrugs. “Go get him, I guess,” Mitch says, unenthusiastic for once. He does wink afterwards, so it feels a little more cheesy as Dylan gets up to follow Connor on his mysterious adventure.

“Um, Davo,” he calls, seeing Connor already halfway down the block. He’s holding a notebook in his right hand that Dylan didn’t seen him carry in. Connor turns a corner to the park, so Dylan jogs to catch up. “Wait up!”

He finds Connor sitting on the edge of a bench, elbows propped on his knees as he leans over and stares at the snow-covered ground. Dylan brushes off the snow and sits next to him, not too close. “Dyls,” Connor says softly, air puffing out from his red mouth in a soft cloud.

“Yeah?” Dylan is almost afraid to break the fragile silence; the cars driving past them are the only sound besides their breathing.

“I like you.”

Dylan’s heart does a backflip and skips about three beats. He’s not even going to pretend he doesn’t know what Connor means.

“How?”

“I just do,” Connor says softly, smiling at the ground. “You just - are.”

“I’m what?” Dylan asks, almost afraid to know. “What about me?”

“All of you.” Connor pulls the notebook from nowhere - again - and shows Dylan the cover. “And this.” It’s his notebook, only - not.

“What the fuck?” Dylan breathes, lungs feeling squished by some unknown force. “What the _fuck_. That’s just like - like - _what?_ What _even_?”

“It’s me,” Connor says gently, cautiously, as if he’s afraid Dylan will get upset. “I’m Bud. And I...it’s you. The guy I was talking about. It’s you. All those things I said were true, too. Are true.”

“What the fuck,” Dylan repeats again for good measure. He stares at the beautiful designs on the journal’s cover, and Connor opens it to the second page. It’s covered in two sets of handwriting: Dylan’s and Bud’s. Connor’s.

“No. Fucking. Way.”

“I’m sorry I wouldn’t tell you,” Connor says abruptly as Dylan tries to wrap his head around the whole thing. “I was-”

“I love you,” Dylan interrupts firmly, finally looking up into Connor’s eyes again as his fingers trace over one of the little doodles Connor made in a margin. “I do.”

Connor’s mouth curves up in a smile so big Dylan can see his gums - and yeah,  _that’s_ the Connor smile he loves. _Loves_. Wow. He can say that now.

“You’re amazing,” he tells Dylan, every bit of awe in his voice mirrored on his face, finally showing every emotion he feels, all at once. Dylan doesn’t hesitate to lean in and kiss Connor’s cold, chapped lips, yet feeling a warmth spread throughout his body. He sets a hand on one of Connor’s thick thighs and squeezes experimentally, and Connor breaks the kiss with a stuttered laugh.

“Too soon?” Dylan asks, but Connor shakes his head.

“I’ve waited long enough.” Dylan grins right back at him and dives in again, Connor’s hands tenderly cupping his cheeks as they make out on a bench in a public park.

Dylan doesn’t even care. He’s in love, he’s in love, he’s in love. He _loves_ \- and is loved right back.

* * *

_Epilogue_

* * *

**You have a nice ass tbh**

**You realize that you can text me, right?**

**Davo. Accept the damn compliment.**

**Thanks so much. Anyway. Texting.**

**No.** Dylan pauses. **I’m tired too, sorry.**

**It’s okay! <3**

**I love you, Connor.**

**I love you more. <3 :D**

**Good to hear :***

**Talk to you tmrw - by TEXT first?**

**Sure thing babe. XP**

**< 3 <3 <3 <3 Gnight...babe. ;)**

That’s - something. Dylan makes a mental note to call Connor babe the next time they see each other.

He writes one last sweet message to Connor through the notebook, then sets it on his desk and rolls over in bed. He holds the stuffed penguin Connor gave him as a super late birthday present to his chest and sighs happily.

He’s _loved_.

**Author's Note:**

> Those poems were not easy to write, nor were they fantastically written. I will never be a poet, I promise you that.
> 
> *phew* for you


End file.
